


Take Care

by FreezingRayne



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-21
Updated: 2011-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 15:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/pseuds/FreezingRayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s alright to want things, Fenris—that’s part of what being a free man is.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Care

Hawke sits down on the lumpy sofa, coughing as dust rises around him. “Have you thought of maybe airing this place out a bit?”

Fenris is seated at the table before the fire, pouring over the latest book Hawke has brought him, lips silently forming words. He looks up, distracted. “What?” He glances over his shoulder to where the windows are bolted tight, curtains drawn over them. “Why?”

Hawke surveys the cracked-tile floor, the tapestries hanging dirty and faded off the walls. At least there are no more corpses festering in the front hall. “It’s just a bit...close in here, is all.”

Fenris is too immersed in his book to fathom subtlety at the moment, it seems. “Does it bother you?”

“No. Well, not really. I was thinking—maybe I could hire someone to fix the place up for you? Or not,” Hawke adds quickly.

After a moment or two Fenris goes back to reading, drawing one long leg up onto the chair. The firelight dances across his face, hollows his cheeks.

\--

It’s purely by accident that Hawke finds out where Fenris sleeps.

He’s up before the seventh bell that morning. He, Merril, and Varric are headed to the Sundermount, and Fenris seldom turns down an offer to 'stretch his legs', as he puts it, which typically translates to _take out unwanted aggression on bands of unsuspecting slavers_. They’ll have to leave early if they want to make it before noon.

The manor is silent when he lets himself in a broken-down side door, no movement but the swirl of dust motes in the blurry morning light. In the parlor the fire has burned itself out overnight, grate long since gone cold. Fenris is curled up on the hearth rug, arms pulled in tight against his body. Even in sleep, he expects an attack.

As Hawke approaches he stiffens, letting out a low, pained whimper. His eyes roll wildly behind their lids as he cries out, hiding from some horror only he can see.

Hawke’s across the room and kneeling on the rug before he can help himself, catching a flailing fist as Fenris strikes out. A moment later he’s shaking in his arms, skin clammy and slick with fear-sweat. His eyes snap open, and for a moment he just stares.

“Hawke?”

“You were calling out in you sleep,” Hawke says.

Fenris pulls away. “I-I’m sorry. It was just a dream.”

“You mean a nightmare.”

“Yes, a nightmare.” Fenris gets to his feet, puts the table between himself and Hawke. He closes his eyes briefly.

Hawke frowns. “Is there a reason you sleep on the ground?”

It takes a moment for Fenris to shake out of whatever memory the dream had stuck him in, eyes fluttering open again. “I…I’m used to it. And the only bed here smells like Danarius.”

It’s a near thing, but Hawke almost can’t stop himself from telling Fenris to come and sleep in his bed. Get himself out of place that can only conjure bad memories. Instead he finds himself asking, “Is there anything that you need?”

“What?” Fenris looks up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t—.” Hawke holds his hands up in defense. “Just—do you need more books? Or maybe your own bed? Or new clothes, or—.” Fenris is looking at him like he’s grown another head. “Never mind.”

/

\--

“Well, would you look at that.” Isabela’s wolf whistle distracts Hawke from his cards.

Varric pours another cup of wine as Fenris walks in, pushing it across the table toward him. “Broody, I had no idea you were so fashionable.”

“What?” Fenris tugs awkwardly at the sleeves of his coat. “Hawke bought it for me.”

Isabela raises an eyebrow. “Really? Maker, I wish a Hightown society man was plowing me.”

“They are,” Varric says without looking up from his cards. “And from how you tell it, in numerous positions and multiple locations.”

“Yes, but none of _them_ ever buy me anything.” She winks at Fenris. “Be sure to take him for all he’s worth, gorgeous.”

Merrill has reached across the table to stroke the arm of his coat. “I think it’s lovely.”

The look on Fenris’ face says he regrets ever coming through that door, although he does cut quite the figure, if Hawke says so himself. The coat is worth every copper of the frankly obscene amount of coin he’d paid for it, not to mention the combination of bribes, trickery, and convincing it took to get Fenris down to Jeanne Luc’s to be measured. It shows of the slim lines of his body, tooled leather with a row of beaten silver buttons down the front.

“I don’t know…” Isabela cocks her head to the side. “I think I’d prefer something that showed a bit more skin.”

Merrill gets a faraway look in her eyes. “He does have very nice skin.”

Fenris’ throat works for a moment, jaw setting tight. “I have to go,” he says shortly, turning on the spot and leaving the way he’d come.

Isabela tips back her chair as Hawke moves to follow him. The last thing he hears on his way down the hall is, “High-maintenance, that one.”

He catches Fenris halfway down the back alley. His shoulders are tight and rigged, and when Hawke puts a hand on his back he stiffens. He moves so fast that Hawke doesn’t even have time to gather the strands of his magic before he’s slammed back against the slick alley wall, filthy bricks digging into his back, the blue-white glow of lyrium lapping against his skin.

“Fenris,” he manages to grit out. “What—.”

“I am not _yours_ ,” Fenris snarls it into his ear, voice more a of threat than a blade at his throat ever could be. “I did not escape one dirty mage to be taken by another, to be dressed up and shown off to your friends.”

His hand is splayed against his chest, and Hawke knows that it would take less than a thought to reach inside and take hold of his heart, crush it between his fingers. Even knowing that, Fenris’ proximity, the smell of him—leather, sweat, and magic—makes Hawke’s head spin.

He shudders, heartbeat in his throat. “T-They’re your friends too.”

“What?”

“They’re your friends too, Fenris,” he repeats, doing his best to fight down the magic that’s aching to burst from his fingertips. Emotions can be a trigger, and the heady mixture of arousal and fear are straining at the edges of his control. “I wasn’t trying to _show you off_.”

Fenris’ brows pull together. “Then it’s to cover the lyrium scars,” he guesses.

“I happen to _like_ your scars,” Hawke says. He traces a thumb across the thin silver line on his chin. “If you wanted to walk around Kirkwall naked, you wouldn’t hear any complaints from me.”

Fenris’ laugh is low and disbelieving. “Then why?”

“Because I like how you look while you’re wearing it.” Discreetly, he pulls his jacket out of Fenris’ grip, stepping back far enough that he can get to his staff if he really needs to. “And because I saw you shivering the last time we climbed the Sundermount. I know it gets much colder here than it ever does in the Imperium.”

That brings the scowl back in full-force. “I do not need—.”

“I know you don’t _need_ anything, Fenris.” Except possibly a kick to the head. He may as well be bellowing at a Gallows statue, for all the good that it’s doing. “You have more than proven that. But it’s alright to want things—that’s what part of being a free man is.”

Fenris stares at him for a few seconds, muscles in his face trying on several expressions before discarding them. At last he laughs and shakes his head, and Hawke finally lets himself relax somewhat, feeling the magic settling down in his veins. It may prove to be a tactical error, however, because when Fenris looks back up his eyes are burning lyrium-silver.

He finds himself up against the bricks again, slim, elegant fingers hooking into his belt.

“I want you, then.” A hot tongue tastes the sweat on his neck, sending a full-body shudder through him. A bit of magic leaks from the tip of his fingers, sparking hot up Fenris’ arms. He expects to be berated for his lack of control, but Fenris just makes a deep noise in his throat, growling as the lyrium lines respond. “Will you let me have that as well?”

There’s really only one good answer to that question. “ _Yes_ ,” Hawke breathes. “Maker, yes.” He clears his throat. “But not…in an alley. And preferably without an audience.”

“What do you..?” Fenris steps back, looking over his shoulder to where Varric, Isabela, and Merrill are watching round the corner of the alley.

“The show is over, children,” Hawke calls. “Go home.”

“I am home,” Varric calls back gleefully.

Fenris seems to be trying to decide whether to eviscerate them now or later. “Friends, you say?” he intones. “I wasn’t aware that this is what friends did.

Hawke settles an arm around his shoulders. “Only the good ones.”

\--

The fire has burned down to a deep, red glow, logs falling down to embers. It heats the left side of Hawke’s body—the right is kept warm by a sweaty, tousled elf who’s elbows are digging uncomfortably into his ribs. Apart from that, however, he doesn’t think he’s ever been more content.

They’re lying on the new, cushy piece of furniture of unknown make and name (Varric had called it a _lounge_ ) that Hawke had bought for Fenris. His rationale had been that it wasn’t precisely a bed—the offer of that had already been vetoed—and despite his initial indignation, Fenris had warmed up considerably to the idea of breaking it in.

He makes a noise of contentment as Hawke slides a hand up his spine, digging fingers into the span of muscle that carries the weight of those giant mauls he swings around. “Maker, you’re thin. What do you eat?”

He grunts. “I’m an elf. Elves are thin.”

“And exceptionally flexible,” Hawke adds with a grin. He feels Fenris chuckle against his chest, breath huffing warm across his skin.  
“You aren’t going to start buying me food now, are you?” he asks, warning in his eyes.

“Hmm…I don’t know. Have you ever had Antivan food? It’s delicious.”

“I think I’ll keep to the wine, thank you.” Fenris rolls toward the edge of the lounge, giving a half-hearted search for his goblet, before giving it up and just picking up the bottle. He makes a noise of satisfaction as he drinks. “Where did you find this? It must have been expensive.”

“In the Hightown market, off some Orlesian trader of dubious legality. I know you like wine.”

Fenris’ eyes narrow. “And that’s reason enough to buy it?” He’s calmed down considerably about it, but he’s still tends toward suspicion in the face of kindness.

“Clearly you have never been wooed before.” Hawke says it before he thinks about who he’s saying it to.

Fenris sets the wine back on the floor, glass touching stone with a hollow clink. “No, I have not.” He lies back down again, but Hawke can feel the tension writ in his shoulders, the laze of afterglow gone from his limbs. He doesn’t know what to say, so he settles for going back to his slow exploration of Fenris’ back. Apart from the story of his escape, Fenris has never spoken of his life from before.

“The room where I slept was drafty and bare. When I ate, it was scraps from the table, and not until after the hunting dogs had eaten their fill.”

Hawke can’t stop his arm from circling round Fenris’ waist, can’t help holding him tighter. He manages to keep his voice level as he says, “He starved his bodyguard? That sounds like rather poor planning on his part.”

“Who needs food when they have lyrium?” Fenris asks dully. He stares into the fire, orange glow reflected in the silver-green of his eyes. “It kept me strong, and it ensured I stayed by his side. I could barely move without it. The craving for it was like a physical ache, along with the craving for Danarius’ approval.”

“Danarius’ approval?”

“Yes.” The loathing in his voice is so tangible it nearly colors the air. “There was a time when I would follow at his footsteps like the most loyal of hounds, longing for any acknowledgement at all, be it a pat on the head or a beating.”

“When you escaped…” Hawke brushes his lips across the ridge of his shoulder. “The detoxification from the lyrium must have been painful.”

“Excruciating, but I am better for it. At least my mind is free of it, even if its mark will always mar my body.”

Hawke traces a finger along the whirls of lyrium on his arm, down his chest and past his ribs. Licking up the scar in the center of his throat pulls a low moan from between his lips, and sucking on the pressure point below his ear makes him writhe. When Hawke bites down on the thick tendon of his neck Fenris arches his back, rolling his hips sharply against his.

There are so many things Hawke knows he could say— _I’m sorry. It’s alright now. I won’t let them hurt you_. He’s sure all of them would be insufficient.

So instead he tips his head back, cards his fingers through lyrium-white hair as Fenris slides down his body to suck him hard again, holds him steady to sink down, taking him slow and easy. He’s still slick and loose from the first time, and when Hawke thrusts upward the noise it shocks from him is heavy with pleasure.

The firelight dapples the slither of white scars, turns them red and orange and gold, ever-changing with his motion, until it almost looks as if they are moving, flowing over his skin like liquid. He is thin, too thin, Hawke thinks, but powerful, and when he demands more, grinds himself down hard, Hawke remembers what he’d told him the first night they’d spoken one-on-one.

_I am not made of glass_.

Hawke takes him by the hips, thrusting up hard, feeling Fenris shudder around him. Sweat rolls down past his collarbone, and Hawke pulls him close to lap it up. Fenris groans as the angle pushes him deeper, tipping his head back to expose the line of his throat. “ _Maker_ , yes, just… _Hawke_.”

Hawke feels the soft brush of Fenris’ knuckles against his belly as he fists himself, tightening down, letting out a low growl as he comes. Hawke is so far gone that it only takes a few more thrusts for climax to overtake him, holding Fenris still and shuddering, grinding his release deep.

When he finally melts back against the cushions, he can feel exhaustion spotting at the edge of his vision. Fenris sprawls, half on top of him, breathing warm against his neck.

“Falling asleep on me, are you, mage?”

Hawke’s response is to yawn hugely. “Yes. Let me stay the night?”

It’s really more of a formality—the Maker himself couldn’t have made him move right now—but when Fenris doesn’t respond Hawke cracks an eye open.

Fenris is looking into the fire again, wearing the barest trace of a grin. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I want you to.”

Hawke wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him back down. “Your desire is my command.”


End file.
